IT'S 9.30PM ON a Friday night. I should be at home falling asleep on the sofa into a plate of sweet and sour pork. Instead I am in the upstairs bar of the Fontenoy Gaels GAA club in Ringsend, Dublin 4 waiting to judge an X-Factor-style contest. The Fontenoy Factor, it's called. We are looking for the next Mary Byrne.
The rest of the judges haven't turned up. Paul the barman says last minute replacements are being sourced, but looks doubtful as he replenishes the Red Bull I am drinking to try to stay awake. "We'll just play it by ear and go with the flow," he says. I initiate five separate text conversations to pass the time. "Has anyone gone on yet. Are all the contestants waiting in the wings?" texts my Mother. "What do you think this is, Carnegie Hall?" I text back. That's the kind of banter that got me chosen as a judge for the F-Factorin the first place.
At 10.30pm I am joined by Dale and Kelly, two good looking streetwise characters half my age who have just come from dinner in town, lured by the promise of F-Factor glory. I’m not saying I am threatened by them, but I was expecting to share the judges’ table with more mature adjudicators. I was going to be the spring chicken, the fresh blood of the panel. Not any more.
Before the contest kicks off, DJ Gerry decides Dale is Simon Cowell, Kelly is Cheryl Cole and I am Sharon Osbourne. Sharon Osbourne! “I meant Danni Minogue,” Gerry says, but the damage is done. Osbourne must be 60 if she’s a day. It seems it was in vain that I dusted down my rarely used ceramic hair straighteners.
Dale Cowell is smirking. Kelly Cole laughs and I am not sure yet if it’s at me or with me. I want to remind them all that I am the only one who was officially booked for this gig, but I just take out my notebook. Neither of them have notebooks, I can’t help observing.
First up is Neil Diamond impersonator Noel, who has a bushy moustache. He sings Coming to America in a voice that is uncannily like Diamond's. But this is not Stars In Your Eyes.It's the F-Factor. That's good, actually. Pithy. I write that down for when I do my post-song critique. Dale Cowell is writing nothing down. "It's all up here," he says tapping the side of his head. Then he says "what's that fellas name again?". Brendan, I lie. Kelly Cole smiles. With me. Good. Excellent.
Five contestants later, it's a disaster. I am coming out with quality X-Factorstyle quips at every turn and yet it's Dale Cowell the crowds are cheering. Most infuriating.
When one middle-aged contestant, Josephine, sings Build Me Up Buttercup, he says: “You remind me of my granny,” and the place goes into uproar. It actually looks at one point as though Josephine, who is married to Noel Diamond, is going to come over and lynch him.
Dale Cowell pulls it back by saying his granny was a great singer. The man can do no wrong. He’s the judge they love to hate. Kelly and I are just eye candy. Well, okay, Kelly is just eye candy. I feel like Louis Walsh when Cowell knocks out one of those excruciating put downs; my mouth opens wide but no sound comes out. I want his approval. And the more I want it, the less he cares.
Kelly and I are agreed on the winner, who gets €50, which is the exact sum she owes her da, so that’s a good result. It’s two against Cowell. He reckons we chose badly. “Amateurs,” he mutters.
Later we notice Gerry the DJ bending his ear. Dale Cowell says he has been invited back for the final but that he told Gerry he doesn’t know if he wants to work with myself or Kelly Cole again. Says we are boring and predictable. A crowd of women mob him as he tries to leave, touching him, he says, “in places no women over a certain age should ever go”.
“You’ve either got it or . . .”, he looks at me.
He is going to get his people to talk to our people about whether we can judge the final with him. I make a last ditch attempt to illustrate that Kelly and I were the foil to his pantomime villain, that he’d have been nothing without our insightful, diplomatic comments, but he gives no quarter. I tell him I am a journalist, a last ditch attempt to impress. “Listen, Róisín, stick to the writing,” he says.
I get into the taxi and I think F-Factor? I'll give him the F-Factor.
THIS WEEKEND: Róisín will be writing ‘mug’ on her forehead and going to a Halloween party dressed as the Irish tax payer.